


Our Love to Proclaim

by FinAmour



Series: 221(B)oyfriends [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actually everyone in this story is clueless let's be real, Clueless Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, How much kissing you ask? Dare I say it's a lot, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Kissing at a crime scene, Kissing in the Rain, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Really a Secret Relationship, Romantic John, Romantic Sherlock, Secret Relationship, THERE IS ALWAYS WALL-KISSING, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wall-kissing, sneaky snogging, soft bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26411764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: This story is now complete!!!***Sherlock and John think they're being sneaky. They aren't.They're blissfully in love; a fact they've not yet revealed to others. During a case one night, their desire for one another overcomes them, and they can't keep their hands to themselves. But as one person after the next catches them in the middle of an amorous encounter, nobody bats an eye.How does everyone already know their secret? It's simple, really; a mystery that even Anderson could solve.***"John.” Sherlock murmurs the word sweetly into his lover’s ear. “John, John, John.”“Mm.” John presses his warm lips against Sherlock’s neck. “You keep saying that.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: 221(B)oyfriends [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896241
Comments: 101
Kudos: 302





	1. Kiss Kiss, Hush Hush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayshipbaeship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshipbaeship/gifts).



> “You were you,  
> and I was I;  
> we were two  
> before our time.
> 
> I was yours  
> before I knew,  
> and you have always  
> been mine too.”  
> -Lang Leav

"John.” Sherlock murmurs the word sweetly into his lover’s ear. “John, John, John.”

“Mm.” John presses his warm lips against Sherlock’s neck. “You keep saying that.”

"Yes. I like the way it sounds." Sherlock dips his head back, exposing his Adam's apple for John to put his lips on. "Should I stop?"

"No." John winds his fingertips through Sherlock's curls and tugs his head back downwards until their lips are aligned. "I like it, too."

Sherlock grins. “Good.” He kisses one corner of John's mouth, and then he kisses the other. "John, John." Kisses the tip of his nose. “John.” His forehead. “John.” His mouth.

John laughs, sucking playfully at Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock groans with disapproval (although he approves wholeheartedly), scolding John with a nudge of his tongue, and John repays him with a large sweeping motion of his own. 

Scientifically speaking, everything about this moment is completely perfect. And like many instances of pure perfection, it began with a murder.

A murder case, to be exact—their first as a couple. A murder case that he and John plan to embark on soon, although they haven’t yet made it past the bottom of their staircase. Captured inside this perfect moment, Sherlock kisses John against the wall, legs pressed between his.

When a murder occurs, there is always a discernible increase in Sherlock’s mood. This is measurable in degrees using the Observable Scale of Holmes’ Internal Temperament (O-SHIT). On a day sans-murder, the O-SHIT hovers between sixty and eighty degrees. A murder often boosts it past ninety; it surges well past one hundred if John is on the case as well. 

In the past two weeks, he’s learned that being John’s boyfriend is quite immeasurable in O-SHIT terms. If it were measurable, however, he estimates it would be somewhere in the realm of nine hundred billion trillion quadrillion. 

Amongst their noises of blissful adoration, Sherlock becomes increasingly grateful that it's past Mrs. Hudson's bedtime—otherwise, she'd definitely overhear. Knowing that John prefers stealth over style, he smashes his lips into his in order to stifle his moans. And for good measure, he smashes his body closer as well. 

He and John have chosen to keep the nature of their relationship mostly private, primarily due to John’s raging danger kink—he finds their marathon sneaky snogging sessions exhilarating. Sherlock is happy to comply; a bit of vigorous wall-kissing never hurt anyone. As for himself, he has kept busy cataloguing the abundance of new sensations.

One thing he hopes goes uncatalogued, however, is the sudden sound of Mrs. Hudson’s door swinging open—and the resounding sigh of relief that follows. 

“Oh!” She exclaims. “It’s only you two. With all the pounding into the walls, I thought someone was trying to get in!”

The two men are so caught off guard by the interruption that terminating the kiss is not even an option; they’re paralysed by shock, lips and bodies still smashed and tangled together. 

Strangely, Mrs. Hudson carries on as though the situation is completely ordinary. “Heading out for a case, I take it,” she says. “Past midnight? Rather late. Though I suppose healthy sleeping patterns are generally lacking among the criminally insane.” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “They ought to consider getting more sleep—might lower their homicidal tendencies. On that note, I’m off to bed! Goodnight, you two!” And with that, she disappears into her flat, closing her door behind her.

It takes both of them a moment to process what’s just happened; finally, Sherlock peels his lips away from John’s.

“Do you think she saw us?” he whispers.

John’s body melts into laughter, his hands settling on Sherlock’s hips. “Yeah. The view from arms-length is pretty clear; I’d say there’s a decent chance.”

Sherlock swallows thickly. “And was it clear, as well, the manner in which I had my lips attached to your lips?”

“Uncertain,” John replies. “If she noticed, she didn’t seem fazed by it.”

John is right. Mrs. Hudson spoke to them as she always does: chipper and loquacious and with a wide and loud selection of opinions—not at all surprised to find them in the midst of an amorous encounter. 

“Have you told her that we’re together?” Sherlock asks.

“Not yet. You?”

“Not a word.”

John shrugs. “Perhaps she just didn’t want to embarrass us.”

“Or she forgot to wear her glasses. Or took too many herbal soothers. Again.”

John chuckles. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Guess our secret’s out to her.”

Sherlock thinks he detects disappointment in John’s tone, but he chooses to ignore it. “We could always tell her we’re practicing restraint techniques.” He lifts his eyebrows suggestively.

“True,” John says. “One never knows when they might need to capture a criminal for kissing purposes.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock grins, playfully pinning him back to the wall with a happiness he can’t contain. “Which leads me to ask—would you mind showing me that last...technique...one more time?” 

“I’d love to.” John pulls him back in, sealing their mouths together. They continue kissing as if the kiss will last forever; as if New Scotland Yard won't quickly ruin the crime scene with their profound incompetence.

And it’s fine. He and John will make their way in good time—and the victim will surely still be dead when they arrive.


	2. Murder Boyfriends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is their first time kissing outside of Baker street—it feels raw, amorous, and sort of dangerous. And though it’s urgent and brimming with passion, Sherlock has many new sensations to catalogue, so he thoroughly intends to take his time.

Their first murder investigation (together, as boyfriends) takes place at a small theatre off West End. The two of them are a tad bit late—John would not take his lips off Sherlock for long enough to get through the front door. But once they finally arrive, they find that much of New Scotland Yard has dispersed, a fact which leads Sherlock to regret ever appearing on time.

The details of the case aren't particularly memorable; what's important is how rapidly it’s solved. In record time, of course, due to Sherlock's genius, and also due John's solemn promise to continue kissing him once it’s over. 

"Blah blah, blah blah blah." Sherlock hears the brilliant words flowing from his own mouth as he divulges his findings on the victim. Lestrade nods along, because he’s fluent in gibberish.

John's gaze burns into Sherlock, creeping up his neck and setting his cranium ablaze, which leads him to deduce even faster than usual. Meanwhile, he wonders how he can miss John's lips so greatly—lips that he's only NOT been kissing for an hour.

He especially misses them as John drags his tongue slowly over his own bottom lip, an action that’s nearly predatory. Sherlock is certain that those lips are going to assault him right then and there, in front of Lestrade and Mister Albany III, Esquire. 

"Blah blah," Sherlock concludes.

"Interesting,” Lestrade acknowledges.

Sherlock agrees. "Yes. Well. Goodbye." 

"Wait," says the Detective Inspector. "I'll need you to sign a—“

"Could I have a word with you, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock moves a few steps forwards and takes John by the arm.

"Oh, quite," John mumbles, his face becoming flushed—he's fluent in gibberish as well. 

They exit the scene. Lestrade is probably calling out to him, but thankfully, Sherlock is fluent in ignoring him. 

"Christ, Sherlock." John's voice is low as they walk side by side. "When you're deducing like that, I can barely contain myself. I just want to—“

"—Assault me with your lips." 

"I suppose that's one way of putting it." John laughs, taking Sherlock's hand into his, a gesture that causes Sherlock's heart to become briefly tachycardic. "God, I can’t wait until we’re home to kiss you again. I saw a stage prop storage room on the way in. Looked empty." 

"Yes. The one with all of the costumes and fake weapons. Could be interesting." 

They manage to keep their hands and lips mostly to themselves until they stumble into the storage room; wherein the lip assault commences. John takes Sherlock forcefully by the coat collar and crashes their mouths together. Dizzy and punch-drunk, they fumble at one another's clothing, all panting breaths and heated kisses. 

This is their first time kissing outside of Baker street—it feels raw, amorous, and sort of dangerous. And though it’s urgent and brimming with passion, Sherlock has many new sensations to catalogue, so he thoroughly intends to take his time.

He has already theorised, based on circumstantial evidence from the past two weeks, how much John loves kissing him (a lot); however, he was not quite prepared for how much John loves kissing him after he's solved a case ( _quite_ a lot). 

John slips his hands beneath Sherlock’s coat, pulling it off over his shoulders. This is convenient, because the room is very hot, and John is very hot, and Sherlock needs John's skin closer to his. Sherlock removes his scarf as well, tossing it next to the Belstaff as they make their way to a medium sized table containing a few stage props.

"Those look sharp," John warns, letting go of Sherlock and swiping an array of weapons onto the ground. "Wow. They're also kind of heavy. Actually, _are_ those props? Didn't you say Albany was stabbed?"

"John!" Sherlock lowers himself onto the table, bringing John with him. "Your lips need to stop moving so I can kiss them." 

John grins, wrapping his legs over Sherlock's, settling into his lap and sealing their mouths together in apology. Sherlock snakes his arms underneath his, closing the distance between their upper bodies, digging his fingernails into the slick material of John’s coat.

John undoes the first two buttons of Sherlock's collar. He kisses his clavicle and shoulders; he slides his tongue over the pulse point on his neck. He nibbles at his jaw and at his earlobe, murmuring words of affection. 

"This is amazing," he whispers. "I can't believe I get to kiss you at a crime scene, Sherlock. And I can’t wait to kiss you in many, many more places." 

"Mm.” Sherlock's fingers creep near the hem of John's trousers, tucking the fingertips barely beneath them, touching his cool skin. “What did you have in mind?”

"Hm. I’d like to kiss you in Paris, in front of the Eiffel Tower. In Bali, on a white sandy beach. In the chilly autumn rain. On Christmas morning, beneath the mistletoe. In front of—"

"Anderson!" Sherlock yelps. 

John freezes mid-sentence, bewildered by the interjection. "I hadn't really considered that you'd be into that, but—"

"No! No, John.” Sherlock glowers with distaste. _"Anderson!"_

"Hey.” Anderson's voice carries over from the opposite corner of the room; again, something Sherlock does not care to catalogue, _ever._

John groans. "Oh. Evening, Anderson." 

"Ugh," Anderson responds mildly. He gazes up at them from his mobile phone, seemingly unperturbed by the sight of John straddling a half-unbuttoned Sherlock. "Sally's angry with me." 

Sherlock sighs emphatically. "Please know that I do not care about your personal life—not even a tiny bit—and that I am only asking you this in hopes that you will leave: why is she angry?"

"No clue." Anderson stuffs his phone into his pocket. "She's so unpredictable, you know? One moment she's got her hands all over me." He gestures towards the two of them. "Like you two. And the next, she's sending me passive aggressive texts." 

Sherlock blinks at him, then at John.

“God help us,” John says.

Sherlock decides to take pity on Anderson—but only because the conversation is beginning to make him queasy. “It's because she's wearing the earrings you bought her, and you didn’t notice.”

Anderson tilts his head in thought, his eyes flitting to John for confirmation. 

John shrugs. "He's the observant one." 

"But that’s not true! I did notice!" Anderson's arms fling to his sides. "I told her that she looks bloody fit tonight!" 

"Not really the same," John explains. "Try being more specific, perhaps." 

"Yes. Yes, Alright." Anderson brings his phone up, muttering the words as he types a message. "Dear...Sally. I love...the way...you are _so_ fit...in those earrings...which I got you...and which I also definitely noticed that you are wearing. I think...that you should continue to wear them...later...at your flat...while we have sex. Love, Anderson. Aaaaaaaaaaaand send!" Smiling with smug satisfaction, he winds his finger back and pokes the screen of his phone enthusiastically. 

"Brilliant,” John says. “Now you'd better go find her again _immediately_ so that you can tell her in person.

"Go away right now," Sherlock chimes in. "Or I will throw one of these katanas at you—just to see if they are, indeed, real.”

Anderson's phone buzzes, and he reads his message. "Oh yeah. Nice."   
  
Sherlock reaches for the blade just as the door swings open and Donovan pops in.

"Hi." She smiles at Anderson. 

"Hi." He smiles back, heading towards the door to meet her.

Donovan regards Sherlock and John with her typical Look of Disdain, appearing not to notice that the two of them are practically frotting atop a flimsy table. 

“Bye, freak,” she calls towards them as she turns to leave. “Bye, freak’s boyfriend.”

Anderson snorts. "Freak's boyfriend. She's referring to you, Doctor Watson."

John nods stiffly. “I gathered. Goodbye.”

And with that, Anderson and Donovan slither away like garter snakes into the night.

“Thank goodness.” John clenches his eyes, leaning forwards to faceplant into Sherlock's shoulder. "I thought he would never leave." 

"John.” Sherlock is stuck on something Donovan said. “She called you my boyfriend." 

"Yes. Strange, isn’t it? Anderson, too." 

Sherlock frowns. "Have you told _anyone_ that we're together?" 

"Only Harry." 

"You told your sister?"

John raises his head and meets his eyes. "Of course. She’s my family. I tell her everything." 

“Oh, John.” Sherlock’s chest clenches, and he can't resist the urge wrap his arms around John’s waist, pulling him in for a tight embrace. "Nobody has ever told their family about me before." 

John kisses his neck softly. "She was very happy for us. Actually, she was surprised it didn't happen sooner." 

"Irene said something similar," Sherlock muses. "Molly, too." 

"Smart women," John remarks. “But do you think maybe one of them mentioned it to someone else?" 

"No. I trust both of them implicitly." Sherlock releases the embrace, leaning back to gaze at John, and he notes the sad expression from earlier has returned. He decides he doesn't like it one bit, and then decides he's going to kiss it away. So he shifts forwards, bringing their bodies closer. 

"I suppose it doesn't really matter," John continues, eyes wandering. "It's not as if we ought to hide it, I just—"

"John.”

”Yeah?”

”Shut up.”

John smiles at him fondly, bringing his hand to the side of his face, tracing his finger over his jawline. Sherlock loves when John looks at him like that. And he loves when John leans in to kiss him softly. And he loves John, too, more than he ever thought he could love anyone.

And he never could have predicted that anything could bring greater joy at a crime scene than solving the crime itself. But here he is—here John is—wonderful and funny and sensual and kind. John, who has helped him discover so many great joys he’s never even come close to knowing before. 

Their kiss is tender and lingering. Sherlock's hands slowly wander to John's back and beneath his shirt, untucking it from his trousers. He clings to John's bare skin, clings to John's taste, clings to the sensation of their hands on one another. And John clings to him, kisses his neck, slides his hands into his hair and over his scalp. 

"John," Sherlock breathes. "John, John, John." 

"Sherlock," John sighs happily. 

"Sherlock," Lestrade says. 

It's a good thing John's lips are suctioned to Sherlock's neck, because Sherlock is so startled that he nearly leaps up from the table and launches the smaller man towards the source of the voice. 

"Lestrade," John utters. "What the fuck?" 

"What the fuck indeed," Sherlock repeats in a deep, booming voice, echoing John's adorable swear.

Lestrade stands next to an intricately-constructed dungeon, jam doughnut in hand. His eyes shift in confusion. "Just wondering when you’re going to sign those documents for me." 

John clears his throat pointedly. "Why are you here, Lestrade?"

Lestrade pauses, doughnut halfway to his mouth. "I—I've been here. The security booth is in the adjoining room. You didn't notice me pass earlier? Dimmock even greeted you as he and I walked by." 

“No.” Exasperated, John unwraps himself from Sherlock and stands, dusting off his jacket. His stature turns serious and soldier-like, sexy and protective and a tad angry—Sherlock loves it. "We did not." 

Sherlock nods. "We were busy. Very busy. Kissing. Kissing a lot, in case you failed to notice." 

"Yeah, of course we noticed.” Lestrade takes a bite of his doughnut, nodding towards the adjoining room. "We saw you on the security camera." 

Sherlock pulls himself up from the table, perplexed. "So you’re telling me...all of New Scotland Yard saw us kissing?” 

"I mean, not _all_ of them. Just the ones who are here."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “And none of you find it odd?" 

"Find what odd?"

"That we’re kissing!" John and Sherlock exclaim in unison. 

Lestrade stares at them for several seconds before answering. "No...do _you_ find it odd?" 

"What do you mean?!" Sherlock huffs. "Am I to understand that you just...assume kissing is something John and I do? As if we're just some... _couple_?"

"We are a couple," John reminds him. 

"That's not the point!" Sherlock crinkles his brow. "The point is...how did you know?"

"I—" Lestrade stammers, squinting at Sherlock for a moment, then at John. "I'm confused." 

"It's only been a couple of weeks," John says. "We've told nobody, and yet—” 

_Oh._ Then it hits Sherlock like a blunt object.

"Oh!" He gasps deeply, pressing his hand to John's chest. "I've figured it out...why everyone knows that we're together." 

Really, it’s so painfully obvious, so familiar, so deeply ingrained in his and John's lives that it hasn’t been a blip on their radar. 

And it only makes him love John even more. 


	3. Our Love to Proclaim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have the privilege of celebrating our love with you, John. Every hour, every moment of every day, for as long as you will allow—and that, to me, is the loveliest thing of all."
> 
> John leans back to look him in the eye. "I will allow it indefinitely." 
> 
> Sherlock swallows thickly again, taking both of John's hands. "Good. Now come with me; I've got somewhere I want to take you." 

"John," Sherlock turns back towards him. "The thing of it is: they've always known. From the very beginning, everyone else saw what we didn't see."

John's eyes grow wide as he begins to understand what Sherlock is saying. 

"That we're in love," Sherlock continues, smiling softly. "That we're perfect together. However, we were—"

"Idiots!" John's face flushes with what Sherlock can only describe as embarrassment. "People have _always_ assumed that we're a couple, haven't they? Of course! Then why would they be surprised to hear it?"

Sherlock's stomach tightens with John's response; he wants to address the apparent embarrassment, but he suddenly remembers that his shirt is unbuttoned. He scrabbles his fingers over the lapels in an effort to reclaim his decency, if such a thing can be reclaimed. "Erm," he mumbles. "I wouldn't go as far as to say we're idiots."

John ignores him and presses on. "When you and I looked at the flat together for the first time, Mrs. Hudson presumed we were together."

"What?" Sherlock pauses. Things Sherlock didn't know. "She did?"

"You were there! Did you not hear it?" His eyes grow wider, nearly comically so. "It was also the first thing Mycroft said to me when he kidnapped me." 

Sherlock turns to fully face John. "I'll kill him."

"And then there was Angelo, and Irene..." 

"Yes. The people who know us best." 

"Wow." John shifts his eyes away, arms falling to his sides. "We _are_ idiots." 

"Beg your pardon," Lestrade says, because he is the biggest idiot of all. "I'm still confused." 

"Lestrade." Sherlock spins on his heel towards the man. "Pop quiz. How long have John and I been a couple?"

Lestrade releases a breath of laughter. "I don't know. Forever? I mean, maybe not forever. I assume you didn't know one another as infants, but if you did, you were probably in love then, too."

"It's been two weeks, Lestrade," John says. "Did I not just say that? Has everyone lost their hearing completely?"

"Ha! Funny." Lestrade stares at the two men, waiting for them to acknowledge the humour in it. "Oh. You're serious?"

John nods. "Two weeks." 

"Two weeks?" Lestrade asks incredulously.

"Two weeks," Sherlock adds.

"Two weeks?!" Dimmock calls out from the adjoining room. 

"Shut up!" John and Sherlock call back. 

Lestrade purses his lips together, nodding thoughtfully. "Well. That's a surprise. But you can't blame me for assuming it's been longer, you know? You're practically already married. Always together, making lovey dovey eyes at one another, giggling like school boys. It was quite obvious from the very start that you were mad about each other, no question." 

"It wasn't obvious to John," Sherlock asserts. 

"Hey! It wasn't obvious to you either, Sherlock!" John protests. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Anyhow, now that we've got that cleared up—" He looks back to Lestrade, who has his phone to his ear and appears to be engaged in a conversation.

"Yes!" Lestrade exclaims. "Two weeks, can you believe it? Put Donovan on so I can tell her!"

Sherlock huffs. Fiercely annoyed, he swipes Lestrade's phone from his hand and hangs it up. 

"Oi!" Lestrade grumbles, swiping it back. 

"Your impertinence is tiresome. We're leaving," Sherlock announces, taking John by the arm. "Let's go." 

"Bye, Greg," John says curtly, following Sherlock to the exit. But as he holds the door to open, Lestrade calls out one more time. 

"Hey, you two." 

Sherlock stomps his feet tempestuously. "For God's sake, I will visit the station tomorrow, with bells on, and sign the bloody document! Just leave us—"

"I'm very happy for you two," Lestrade interrupts. "We all are. I truly mean that." 

Sherlock freezes, stunned by the kind words. "Oh. Well, thank you." 

John speaks soon after, but not to express his gratitude; he doesn't even meet Lestrade's eyes. "But it's not news to you." 

"John," Sherlock whispers as his heart drops to his stomach. 

"I was happy for you then, Watson," he insists. "And I'm happy for you now. If you take all the retroactive happiness and put it together, it's a whole lot of happiness. And you've got a lot of people who care about you, and a lot of people who are happy for you, and that's not insignificant." 

John's lips finally turn up into a half-smile. "Thank you." He heads through the door. "Good night." 

As Sherlock watches him walk briskly ahead, he's overcome with sheer panic. What on earth is he running from? 

"John!" he calls out, moving quickly to catch up with him. He takes his hand.

John stops. "Sherlock." He sighs. "God, I'm being an utter arsehole. I'm so sorry." 

"A little bit, yes." Sherlock takes his other hand and places it beneath John's chin, turning his head so he can look him in the eye. "I see that you're upset, but I just need to know one thing. Are you unhappy that the others know we're together? Because if that's the case, I know tons of sneaky places in London where we can kiss. Sneaky kissing places in London will never be lacking. In fact, there's a tiny staircase over there across the road—would you like to go engage in another mutual lip assault?"

"No!" John chuckles. "I mean, yes. Yes, I want to do that. But you're wrong. I am so proud to be yours, and I love that everyone knows. I _want_ everyone to know. Everyone in the whole damn universe. I would scream it from the rooftops if I could." 

Sherlock swallows thickly; his allergic intolerance to emotions appears to have become active again. "Then what is it?" he asks with trepidation. "Why are you upset?"

"It's _our_ love," John proclaims. "A love I've been waiting a lifetime to find. It's the greatest love I've ever known, and we don't even get to tell others, because they knew first!" He shakes his head with discontent. "It's monumental to us, Sherlock, and our closest friends can't even celebrate it! Don't you find it a bit disappointing?"

With John's words, Sherlock's heart feels bigger than his sternum. He isn't exactly sure at which point his arms become fully wrapped around John's body, John's head buried in his chest. He also isn't sure when he begins to place delicate kisses on top of his head, or when he became the type of person to comfort another. There is no limit to the odd things his love for John causes him to do. 

"I understand why you feel that way, John." He brushes another kiss to his temple. "Utterly and completely. And I appreciate you telling me."

John sighs deeply. "I appreciate you letting me." 

"Always," Sherlock replies. "You can talk to me about anything, you know." 

John nods, though his face is still buried deeply in Sherlock's chest, so he doesn't do it with a great range of motion; Sherlock will, however, accept his response. 

"Would you like to know my thoughts on the matter?" he asks. 

"Yeah." John squeezes him closely. "I really would." 

Sherlock pauses for a moment, carefully forming words. "I belonged to you before I knew I belonged to you. We belonged to one another, and I suppose our actions have always spoken louder than our words. They've always said—quite loudly, by all accounts—that we're in love. That's quite lovely, don't you think?"

John exhales a breath of laughter. "It is." 

"And although Lestrade is an idiot, he does have a point: they've been happy for us all along, and we finally have a chance to partake in _their_ happiness. Perhaps we weren't the ones to share the news. But I have the privilege of celebrating our love with _you,_ John. Every hour, every moment of every day, for as long as you will allow—and that, to me, is the loveliest thing of all."

John leans back to look him in the eye. "I will allow it indefinitely." 

Sherlock swallows thickly again, taking both of John's hands. "Good. Now come with me; I've got somewhere I want to take you." 

John lifts an eyebrow. "Where could you possibly take me at this hour?"

Sherlock tugs at his sleeve, smiling impishly. "It's a surprise. Just trust me, alright?" 

John nods, smiling back. "You lead; I'll follow." 

And Sherlock does just that.

The two of them make their way down through the twisted alleyways, the dense, foggy air filling their lungs. And this—this will always be one of Sherlock's favourite sensations—even moreso when he and John are running side-by-side, hand-in-hand. 

He keeps their fingers close as they come to a fire escape, and as he pulls the staircase down, and as they ascend the stairs to the topmost storey of the building. And he keeps them close as they jump off the ladder and onto the rooftop, and as they go near the edge, to observe a sprawling view of London.

The streets are covered in fog, and the sky is blanketed with clouds, and there isn't a celestial body in sight. Other than John's, obviously.

"It's beautiful," John says in awe; Sherlock finds that he is looking directly at him. He's panting and out of breath, but he looks happy. 

"It is," he agrees. 

"Alright, then. I'm intrigued. Why did you bring me here?"

Sherlock gazes back over the edge and into the city. "I truly gave up on love before I met you; believing that the only matter of importance was my brain. Solely the hard drive in my head mattered, and everything else served to rob that of very useful resources. Over time, I managed to turn my soul to stone."

"Yes," John responds. "I recall." 

"Meeting you was quite inconvenient, you know." 

"Oh yeah?" John says humorously. "What point are you attempting to make, exactly?" 

"My point is: I didn't care." Sherlock raises his head to the sky as a single star peeks out from the clouds. "John, you challenged my beliefs, and I didn't care, because I was happier than I'd ever been. I didn't know what was happening, and I can't tell you exactly how and when it happened. I only knew I wanted more, and that I wanted you." 

"Sherlock." John takes a step forwards, hugging him from behind. "Yes." He places a kiss on his shoulder. "I'm not good with words the way you are, but emphatically _yes."_

Outside is quite cool, and the wind is picking up, but Sherlock's chest is indescribably warm, surging with a euphoria he can't contain. Purposefully bringing his hands up to the sides of his mouth in order to project his voice, he takes a deep breath, and he releases the words that are dying to get out. 

"Attention, London!" he yells over the edge and into the city. "I've got an announcement to make."

He can feel John's sides contracting with laughter. "Oh my god.”

Sherlock proudly continues. "I love John Watson!" 

John pulls away and takes him by the elbow, turning his body towards him. "This was your plan?"

"Of course. You may now scream it from the rooftops to your heart's content." 

John takes his head into his hands, kissing him firmly on the lips. "You are incredible," he says. "Thank you." 

Sherlock grins. "Are you ready?" 

John lets go of him, taking a few confident strides towards the edge. He takes in a huge breath, and he lets it all out. "Did you hear that, everyone?!" he yells. "I am in love with Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are in love! It's true! And it's amazing! And fantastic! And sensational!" 

The pure joy on is face is something Sherlock has rarely seen; it's irresistible and achingly beautiful, even in the darkness.

He moves to stand besides him. "John Watson is my boyfriend! And the best thing to ever happen to me! And also! By the way! He is a very, very talented kisser! He does this insane thing with his tongue that makes me squirm! Every! Time! It's unbelievable! And!" he takes a deep, deep breath. "I love him!" 

"Jesus Christ! Will you shut the hell up!" Another voice hollers from an adjacent building. “Do you have any idea what bloody time it is?" 

With that, John and Sherlock dissolve into laughter first—and into kisses second. 

"I think our point was made." John smiles against Sherlock's lips. 

"Well made," Sherlock says against his. "And John…" 

"Yes?"

"One of your wishes is about to come true." 

"What do you mean?" 

Before Sherlock can answer, rain begins to pour from the sky in big, heavy drops. It's all the answer John needs.

And Sherlock can't help but wonder: what will be their next first kiss? Paris, in front of the Eiffel tower? A white sandy beach in Bali? On Christmas morning, beneath the mistletoe? Or will it be something else entirely?

It could be anything—with John, it could be anything. Here, inside another perfect moment, they kiss one another in the chilly autumn rain—faces slick, clothing drenched, cheeks aching with happiness.

And thus concludes their first murder investigation (together, as boyfriends). 


End file.
